


kurv your enthusiasm

by opalsupremacy



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, amon and tarrlok didn't die it's for the plot, asami is concerned, korra laughs too much, kuvira wears sunglasses, lots of anachronisms bc i literally do not care, oh there are also more characters than that, socially awkward amon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26049400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalsupremacy/pseuds/opalsupremacy
Summary: Amon, Tarrlok, and Kuvira join forces... to get into the standup comedy industry. Korra wrestles with the fact that she finds the jokes immensely funny. That's pretty much it.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 24





	kurv your enthusiasm

**Author's Note:**

> credit for the amazing title goes to the one and only maddie, love u

Kuvira had just gotten finished being a fascist dictator, but wow, did she already miss it, because customer service was decidedly not her thing. How she’d declined from the supposed “Great Uniter” to the clerk at a bread store was honestly a blur at this point, but hey, at least she wasn’t in jail. Yet.

It had started directly after she’d surrendered— a rather awful idea, in retrospect, as it would have been easier to escape  _ before  _ she’d been handcuffed, but she had been so shaken, then, that making a run for it had not even seemed to be an option— to the Avatar. She had temporarily been detained awaiting her trial, and it was within those first few days that she’d come to the realization that she could not live like this for the rest of her life, alone in a platinum cage, no matter how beaten down she’d become, if only because it was so goddamned  _ boring.  _ Complete and utter misery had kept her decently occupied for the first few days, but it couldn’t last forever. And so she’d made a plan to escape.

The fact that it had actually worked was ludicrous, but she supposed she had to have  _ some  _ sort of charisma factor (she’d run an empire, after all). She’d put on a facade (well, a half-facade, as, to a vast degree, it was honest) of being so miserable she was incapacitated in order to attain the lowest security measures possible. The guards stationed outside her cell had seemed rather inexperienced, at one point, and so that was when she’d made her move. She had cleared her throat and stated all she could think to say: “Hey.”

The first guard, a young man with the build of string bean, had jolted around in surprise. He’d blinked a few times before the stocky female guard beside him cleared her throat and he turned around, face flushed for having stepped out of line.

_ Hah.  _ “Uh, how’s it going?” Kuvira remembered jostling around the chains encasing her hands as something of a nervous tick.

Even the older guard had glanced backward that time.

“It’s decent,” the younger one had answered absentmindedly.

“Boh, please, you’re not meant to fraternize with the prisoners.” She’d looked over her shoulder at Kuvira with an expression reminiscent of how one viewed a dirt stain on their newly purchased clothing. “And cut the pleasantries. We both know what you are.”

“Of course.”

There had been a long silence, one punctuated by the rhythmic— well, she had thought it was rhythmic— clanging of her chains on the floor. Boh and the older guard had grimaced one, two, three, four times before “would you _stop_ that?”  
“Sure. Sorry.” She’d stared at the wall for several moments before strategically letting out a sigh. 

“For someone who we genuinely considered a threat, you’re awfully immature,” Boh had commented, exasperation practically leaking out of his mouth.

“Meh.”

Incredulity written across her face, the other guard had whirled around. “Could you two  _ stop  _ talking? Boh, she nearly killed your entire family.”

“Sorry,” Kuvira had offered, and perhaps her tone had been too casual, because silence once again ensued. 

Yeah, so the  _ charisma  _ approach hadn’t worked out super well. But it did serve its purpose of portraying her as less of a threat, and it had been a breath of fresh air to act like a petulant child again. When these particular guards had attempted to escort her from the cell to the tribunal, she’d initially complied, giving Boh an easy— if concerning— smile and walking with them with no struggle. Their grips on her arms had actually loosened when she’d come in the vantage point of the exit. 

_ FUDDIE HOES I HATE THEIR ASSES FUCK IT.  _ She’d put up a very sudden fight— writhing, with jerking motions— and managed to struggle her way out of their grasp. She had to admit, running with her wrists tied in front of her had been a bit of a pain, but she’d managed decently well. 

“Hey, stop!” Boh had cried out, and for a fraction of a second, she’d felt bad. Oh, well. You win some, you lose some, and on that day, Kuvira was fucking  _ winning.  _

After zooming out of the maximum-security prison, she’d shoplifted (because, really, what did she have to lose?) a wide-brimmed hat and the largest pair of plastic sunglasses she could find before high-tailing it out of Republic City on a boat that she’d hijacked.

Fun fact: Kuvira did not know how to drive a boat. She had never driven a boat in her life and probably would never drive a boat again. She was from the fucking _Earth_ Kingdom; what was the purpose of knowing how to boat? In fact, _driving_ a boat was probably not even the proper terminology, as it didn’t sound right. Also, driving a boat while handcuffed? Not one of her brightest decisions. (TW// blood) She’d eventually gotten them off by sticking her hands under the propellor, which, again, did not scream _genius_ , but did she have another option? Her forearms had bled so much that she’d often felt lightheaded, and she’d done quite a lot of screaming in agony, biting into the collar of her shirt to muffle the pain if only a little, but hey, at least her arms didn’t fall off. (End of TW) 

As she’d been saying, it was absolutely absurd that this escape plan had succeeded. But ultimately, it had. She’d nearly crashed the boat on some random, remote Fire Nation shoreline (she’d be too recognizable in the Earth Kingdom— in hindsight, printing her face on t-shirts was a very, very stupid idea—, and the water tribes were too far away). And that had been it. They had been taking quite kindly to Earth Kingdom refugees considering recent political turmoil—  _ oops _ —, and thus it had been relatively easy to lie her way into false citizenship, though the hat and glasses had raised a few eyebrows.

She’d been homeless and unemployed for a couple of weeks, desperately waiting for the search for her to die down, but she had eventually decided that it would only draw more attention to her if she was caught stealing. And that was how she’d ended up a grossly underpaid clerk in a bread store. Not her ideal career choice.

***

_Noatak._ It was still a really fucking weird name to go by, no matter how long he’d been using it. And maybe it was the nearly twenty years going by Amon, but it just… didn’t roll off the tongue like it should have. But anyway, it was a good “pseudonym” to go by, although in reality, it was a pseudonym for a pseudonym, making it ultimately not a pseudonym at all. Spirits, he was giving himself a headache, and it was about to be his shift, too, which was annoying. He and Tarrlok had found jobs as fishermen for the past three years, and it had been nice, but… quiet. It was a stark contrast from the world of politics from which they’d so tumultuously emerged.

Amon— fuck,  _ Noatak _ — remembered that day quite vividly.

The air had been somewhat cold, and the wind vicious. The panic that had seized his chest when his mask had fallen off— well, actually, it had been  _ ripped  _ off, thank you, Korra— had had an iron grip, and he’d impulsively rushed to free Tarrlok— his brother, who he never thought he’d see (let alone  _ speak to _ ) again— and run off with him. What had surprised him was the fact that no one had really bothered to come looking for them— perhaps they’d been presumed dead?—, and what surprised him more, to this day, more than three years later, was that they’d actually managed to carve out a life here. 

And he should have been happy about that. And he was, of course. This was better than imprisonment or death or another twenty years of leading the Equalist movement, and spirits, that had been an enormous lie which had caused  _ numerous  _ episodes of heart palpitations and hyperventilating (he was genuinely the most stupid person he knew), but even then… it had been easier to be Amon, who had a life purpose, who had a past that tied its loose ends together neatly, who  _ had  _ a family to avenge. Noatak, by contrast, spent his days fishing and upholding awkward conversations with Tarrlok, and he was  _ grateful,  _ sure, but— what the hell was he supposed to do now?

***

So Tarrlok was tired. The fact that he’d gone from politician to kidnapper to _Amon’s fucking brother_ to a random fisherman in a small coastal Fire Nation town was still surreal to him, but also surreal was the fact that he and Noatak— three years and it was still strange that he had a family again— weren’t dead yet. On the day it had all happened, when they’d taken a boat and escaped Republic City, he’d had a very strong urge to end it all right then and there. He’d felt practically glued to where he sat in the boat, and he’d been genuinely seasick. The electrical glove had been right there, within arm’s reach, and he’d been so, so ready to—

Yeah, of course not. Nothing ever went his way anymore, and so, accordingly, Noatak had interrupted, awkwardly clearing his throat. “I uh, missed you. You know, it’s, uh… been a while.”

And in the face of that, Tarrlok had not been able to do anything but stare. The impulse had been stopped in its tracks.

His brother had laughed, an almost nervous sound. “So, um… it looks like we both got into politics. That’s— that’s a funny coincidence, right?”

His hand had hovered over the glove.

“Of course, you, um, you did it the right way.” 

No thoughts had come, only the wind rushing in his ears.

“But— but anyway, I—” Noatak’s grip on the steering wheel had become so clenched that his knuckles had begun to turn white. “Uh, fuck. I just— I never— I don’t know how to—”

The silence had been excruciating.

“Tui and La, Tarrlok, could you— could you say something? If you say you hate me, it’s— I mean, I’d hate me— it’s fine, really, it is, I mean, of course, I’d  _ mind  _ it if you hate me, but frankly, I wouldn’t blame you, but—  _ fuck,  _ I just, what I’m trying to say—”

“Stop.” And finally, the thought had been completely derailed. 

Noatak had glanced back over his shoulder, where Tarrlok’s arms had hung limply at his sides. There had been a mixture of hope and terror and pity in his eyes, and the atmosphere had been soundless and suffocating.

And then the Equalist glove he’d been reaching for had short-circuited and caused a small fire. “ _ Holy shit! _ ” Tarrlok had leaped from his seat and frantically attempted to waterbend in order to douse the flame, but, (of course), nothing had happened.  _ FUCK FUCK FUCK _ —

“What?”

“What do you mean,  _ what _ ? Do you not see the fucking  _ fire _ ?” He’d essentially sprinted across the deck and tackled Noatak for control of the wheel. “ _ I’ll  _ steer; you’re the bender here,  _ PUT IT OUT! _ ”

Noatak had stumbled across the deck. “Okay,  _ okay _ !” He’d bent the water surrounding the boat to come crashing down over the fire… and everything else.

Almost a minute had passed before either of them spoke again.

Now soaking wet, Tarrlok had gripped the wheel with a grimace, grumbling, “Your bending’s gotten sloppy.”

“Well, you told me to put out the fire! I’m not used to putting out fires on boats!”

“I figured you’d be a  _ little  _ more precise!”

“I  _ panicked _ ; you were fucking screaming!”

“ _ Because the boat was on fire! _ ”

“Well, that’s why I  _ put it out _ ! Like you could’ve done any better!”

“No, I couldn’t have, and that’s actually  _ entirely your fault! _ ”

The color had drained from Noatak’s face. “You… yeah, you have a point there.”

“Damn straight.”

A few moments of silence had passed.

“Uh… Noatak?”

“Yes?”

“Where are we even going?”

“I… hadn’t actually planned it that far in advance.”

And in spite of everything, in spite of the now-freezing air, soaked boat, and the fact that he was dripping from head to toe with saltwater, Tarrlok couldn’t help but laugh. He’d laughed until his head had ached, and Noatak had just stared. After he’d calmed down, he had sighed. “So, we can go… anywhere?”

“Well, kind of. I mean, I didn’t pack much… you know, food.”

“Tui and fucking La. You’re even dumber than I remember.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” He’d rubbed his temples, not starving alongside his idiotic brother now at the top of his priority list. “So. I guess this would mean that we should keep heading west. They probably won’t recognize us in the Fire Nation, and then we can figure out what to do next from there.”

“...we?”

He’d looked up. “Look, things are— they’re weird. I’ll be the first to admit it. And we both have a lot of explaining to do.” He’d taken a shaky breath, fumbling for words. “And I don’t know how to— listen, I’m just focusing on surviving right now, but… well, yeah, I missed you, too.”

And before he could process what was happening, he’d been pulled into a bone-crushing hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, I promise I’ll make it up to you, somehow, I—“  
“Noatak.” He’d struggled for air. “I can’t breathe.” But despite that fact, he could not help but think that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

***

“Sir, I’m not sure what you’re asking. This is a bread store.” The fact that those words had even left Kuvira’s mouth was enough to invoke an intense desire to strangle everyone in the general vicinity with the metal chains that locked up her boss’s money in a safe in the back room of the store. Of course, that wasn’t exactly a realistic option, but it was looking more and more appealing as the man in front of her continued to speak. 

He was fat and reeked of expensive perfumes and was quite obviously not a native of the dilapidated town which she now resided in. His voice resembled that of a frog with a respiratory illness and Kuvira was dying to put him out of his misery.  _ Breathe. You need this job. You need this job. You need this fucking job. _

“I’m simply asking what you sell.”

“This is the  _ bread  _ bank. We sell bread. We sell loafs. We’ve got bread on deck, bread on the floor, toasted, roasted—”

“Bro, shut the fuck up. Listen, I just need a baguette and a brioche.”

She carefully inhaled through her nose. “We don’t have either of those. You can either get the gluten-free white bread or the potato bread.”

“What the fuck is gluten? Take that shit out.”

“It’s… gluten-free .”

“I don’t care if it’s free.”  
This was where she lost it. “Swear on your fucking _YEEZYS._ ” _What the fuck is a yeezy?_ She didn’t care. She was too engulfed in rage. “If you want to fight, we’re gonna fight.”

The man was quite literally fuming. Must’ve been a firebender. “What, are you trying to be on Worldstar?”

“What, are you gonna record it?”

“Yeah, I’ve got my dollar store camera with me.” He sneered through his yellowing teeth. “ _ On _ .”

“Oh.”  _ Fuck, there goes any shot at not blowing my cover _ — 

In came her manager.  _ Fantastic. _ “What’s the fucking situation?”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I’m the motherfucking  _ manager _ .”

“At the bread store?” 

“ _ BREAD. _ ”

“Tell her to take the motherfucking gluten out of the bread.”

Her manager, a very tall nonbender with slight anger issues, glanced between her and the customer in disbelief. “Imma need you to shut that bullshit up, chief. We can’t take  _ shit  _ out of the bread.”

“Why put it in in the first place?”

“It’s—”

“I _know_ y’all are smoking that _pack_.” Yeah, she wished.  
“We’ve got crackers,” Kuvira offered halfheartedly. 

“Fuck crackers.”

“It’s  _ gluten-free _ , do you want the gluten or nah?”

“Hell no, you’d better take the gluten out of that damn shit.”

“Look,” Her manager cut in, eyes narrowing in disgust. “We’ve got whole wheat: gluten-free, Texas toast: gluten-free,  _ tortilla _ —”

“Fuck all that! What bitchass country are y’all from where they’ve got this bullshit at?”

She actually almost said the Earth Empire. That would’ve gone over  _ really  _ fucking well.

“The Fire Nation.”

“I knew it.”

“Look, you can either take this yeast, or I’m calling the police,” her manager harrumphed.

“I’m going  _ WEAST _ .”

She chuckled nervously. “No, don’t call the police, uh—”

“I wouldn’t, I’ve got a warrant.”

The customer rolled his eyes. “Honestly, fuck y’all. I ain’t ever seen nobody act like this over bread.”

“What the fuck are you saying?”  
“All I’m saying is, fuck y’all’s bread, fuck the gluten, and _fuck them crackers_.”

She gritted her teeth. “But the crackers don’t have gluten.”  
“Oh.” The man visibly brightened. “I’ll take some of those!”

“Okay, that’ll be five—”

“Nah, fuck that, I’m not paying.” The dude snatched the crackers, flipped her off, and slammed the door behind him.

Nearly a minute of silence passed before either of them bothered to speak again. “Should I—”

“No, just… let him go.”

“Uhm, okay. Great. Thanks for… backing me up there.”

“Don’t count on it happening again. The guy looked loaded; I just wanted to see what his deal was.”

“...okay.” Impulsively, she grabbed a loaf of bread from under the counter and took a bite out of it. It had been a stressful day. She was hungry. The bread was, realistically, very shitty; it was hard and stale, but at this point, she genuinely did not care. 

Apparently, that had been a mistake, as her manager’s eyes nearly bugged out of his stupid head. “What… what are you doing?”

“Eating some bread.” Her organs then plummeted. What the fuck was she doing? She had a whole job ironed out here, who knew when she’d find another,  _ god fucking damnit why did I have to eat the bread?  _ Quickly, she attempted to fix her glaringly egregious error. “Uhm… I’ll pay for it! Here.” She frantically pulled out a handful of change, at which her manager merely eyed her with great suspicion.

Reluctantly, he started to take the change. “Okay, but still… that’s incredibly unsanitary.”

“ _ Nothing  _ here is sanitary,” Kuvira responded, only half-joking. 

“What… what are you implying?”

She bristled. “Nothing, sir, it’s just that I think me eating a loaf of bread is the least of your concerns regarding sanitation.”  _ Also, I wouldn’t be eating it if it wasn’t my eleventh straight hour working at this fucking counter. _

“Are you insulting the cleanliness of my bread bank?”

“I— no—“

She was saved from that debacle of a conversation when another customer walked in. The guy looked about ready to jump out of his skin at any moment.

“Uhm, hi, welcome to the bread bank. How can I help you?”

His gaze suspiciously wandered around the room, which was quite honestly very close to caving in on itself. “Hi, do you sell… brioches?”

Yeah, Kuvira was just about done. Gripping the edge of the counter, feeling her manager’s eyes piercing into her soul, and trying  _ desperately  _ not to murder anyone, she responded, “No, we do  _ not  _ sell brioches. Read the chalkboard in the back.”

The chalkboard in the back helpfully read  _ MENU: BREAD  _ in smudged calligraphy.

“Oh, right, sure,” the guy trailed off. “Yeah, I was just looking for some fancy bread, I’m not really good with, uh, bread, but—“

“Fancy… bread.”

“Yeah, like a— like a brioche but obviously not a brioche. Something fancy. It’s my brother’s birthday, and he’s a— he’s a very fancy person.”

“I don’t… it’s bread. We just sell bread.” Why did she have to get the worst customers today, of all days? She was so tired it was surreal and she was losing her ability to care whether or not she was fired.

“Well… what kind of bread do you give to rich people?”

“Crackers.”

“That… doesn’t sound very fancy.”

“That’s because it’s not.”

“But I thought—“

“Rich people have no  _ brains,  _ asshole.”

“Okay, you know what, listen, I’ll just take a regular loaf of bread and go.”

She glanced over at her manager, who appeared absolutely livid, then back at the very awkward customer, who, from the looks of it, was from the water tribe. She wasn’t in any hurry to face her employer’s wrath, so she figured that she would drag this out as long as possible.

She plastered on a smile. “No, wait, you want to find fancy bread, don’t you?”

***

Amon— _Noatak, man, it’s been three years, get it together_ — had never been more relieved in his entire life than he was at this moment. What the fuck had he been thinking? _Fancy bread? Who goes into a bread bank and asks for fancy bread?_ Additionally, the whole mask shtick had really messed up his eye contact skills; all he could seem to do was stare intermittently at random spots around the room. 

He couldn’t afford a cake and he’d thought that bread was the next best thing. The past few years had been weird and dysfunctional and they’d actually forgotten each other’s birthdays— “ _ I’ll make it up to you”, my ass— _ , but this time they were actually in good moods and he was determined to get Tarrlok  _ something.  _ Even if it was bread. Tarrlok had gotten all  _ refined  _ and politician-like and still looked at him strangely from time to time, which Noatak couldn't feasibly  _ blame  _ him for, but anyway, he was trying to impress him somehow. And yeah, fancy bread was all he could manage to come up with.

The trouble was, he had no idea what  _ fancy bread  _ was or how much that would cost, and the chalkboard was not very helpful. However, as he was saying, he was extremely relieved because for some reason the— admittedly very hotheaded, what was her problem?—clerk had decided to play along.

“Yeah, I don’t— I’m not a bread person so I don’t even know what to—“

“Okay, no worries.” She peeked over her sunglasses toward the kitchen behind her, acting as though someone had her held at knifepoint. “Why don’t you… tell me more about your brother; maybe we can… personalize the bread.”

“You do personalized bread?”

“I mean, sure, why not?”

“Is it more expensive?”

The woman paused as if in thought, adjusted the position of her wide-brimmed hat, then smirked. “No, there’s no additional fee.”

Noatak grinned. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “Oh, that’s great, thanks so much!”

“So, uh, your brother?”

“Uh, right, we’re… kind of estranged?”

“I asked for basic information, not your personal lives.”

“Okay…”

She stared at him impassively through those very suspicious sunglasses. “...does he have a name?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s Tarr—“  _ fuck, anonymity  _ “— yeah, it’s Tarr.”

“You mean like the sticky shit that gets in your lungs?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, I guess, that’s… not… what our parents were thinking of, but…”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I… yep, yeah, it is.”  _ Sorry, Tarrlok. _

“How old is he turning?”

“Forty, I think.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. I think.”

“So… not a safe bet to put the age in the bread.”

“Or the name,” He added hastily. “Because, you know, it’s embarrassing. With the… lungs.”

“Understandable. But that could make it interesting to personalize it. Does he have a favorite color?”

“...probably. I don’t know.”

“Sir, I’m— is he not your brother?”

“ _ Estranged.  _ Sort of.”

She regarded him with something of a scowl and then seemed to regain her composure. “Here’s an easy one. Is he a bender?”

“Yes— well, no— I mean, he used to—“

“Are you fucking kidding me? Just answer the question.”

“...waterbender. Kind of. Not really.”

“Okay, great, so we’ll make his bread blue.”

“You can do that?”

“Sure.”

That was when the clerk was shoved out of the way by some guy that popped out from behind her, whom she promptly punched in the face. He grunted in pain and scowled through his now-bruised countenance. “No, we  _ cannot  _ do that, and  _ this clerk  _ is fired! Get the hell out of my bread bank. Both of you. Right now. Or I’m calling the cops.”

_ What the fuck?? All I wanted was bread. _

“I thought there was a warrant out for your arrest,” the clerk cut in. 

“Don’t test me.” He wielded his cheap phone— it was attached to the wall and the wire was starting to get tangled— as if it was a weapon, which was enough for Noatak to get the message. He did  _ not  _ need to be arrested today. He’d buy something else. Maybe he’d paint a seashell or some shit; he didn’t care at this point. The point was, he had approximately half an hour before Tarrlok got home from fishing and he didn’t have the  _ time  _ to be arrested, so he sprinted out of the bread bank without a second thought. 

***

Tarrlok was done with fishing. Like, emotionally, mentally, physically done with fishing. It would not have been that hard had he still had his  _ bending _ , but that was obviously not the case. And yes, he was still bitching about that over three years later. 

The boat smelled. It genuinely smelled horrible, and that was because of the fish, and this entire experience had ruined him for eating Fire Nation seafood ever again. Fuck Fire Nation seafood, anyway, it tasted like shit. That sentiment, apparently, was on the contrary to the opinions of the other fisherpeople on the boat, who whooped and hollered and got excited to eat the fish (which they were apparently going to buy) at home.  _ Fucking liars.  _

Spirits, nothing interested him anymore. He was so perpetually bored. Noatak was nice enough sometimes, but their relationship was mildly fucked up, and any social skills that idiot possessed had completely degraded at this point. 

Speaking of whom, he was supposed to be waiting on the pier for him and  _ what the actual fuck was he doing?  _ The ex-leader of the all-intimidating Equalist movement was waving his arms around like a lunatic on the pier as the boat docked. Tarrlok immediately tensed up, trying not to laugh despite himself so as not to be associated with him by his coworkers, because honestly, that was the last thing he needed. Once the boat had been secured against the pier and his daily wage had been handed to him by the co-captain, an older man with greasy hair and an even greasier beard, he made his way down the wooden ramp, after which Noatak  _ literally barreled into him like a deranged ostrich-horse. _

He deliberately began shoving his brother away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Even the seagulls were staring at them at this point. “ _ HAPPY BIRTHDAY! _ ”

“What are you—“  _ it’s my birthday? Oops.  _ “—uh… thanks. I guess.”

They started walking into town, Noatak still half clinging onto him as he did so, rambling, “I know it’s almost sundown now and I should have said it earlier but I was still asleep when you left to go fishing, and I didn’t want you to think I  _ forgot…  _ again… because I didn’t!”

“...okay.”

“Anyway, uh, see, I tried to get you a cake, right, but it was too expensive and plus I don’t even know what kind of cake you like, so that didn’t really work, and  _ then  _ I tried to get you, uhm, fancy bread—“

“Fancy… bread.”

“— _ yes _ , but the manager was fucking crazy and threatened to get the clerk and me arrested, but it wasn’t a big deal, I didn’t get arrested, so don’t get pissed, also what’s your favorite color?”

“You  _ what? _ ”

“Never mind, my  _ point  _ is that I couldn’t buy anything because everything’s so fucking expensive and I also ran out of time so I just did something stupid.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

He smiled brightly, then frowned. “I painted a seashell. It sounds so dumb out loud, but it didn’t cost anything, and since I have unspent money maybe we could go for drinks later? You know? Like whatever it is normal people do on their birthday? If you want?” He shoved a rather intricately painted scallop shell into Tarrlok’s hands ( _ guess the scar makeup work paid off for something, at least _ ) and, for the first time since Tarrlok had gotten home, he was quiet.

Tarrlok turned the inane thing over in his hand a few times before responding. It was nice that Noatak had remembered— _ he  _ certainly hadn’t—, but this was ridiculous, even for him, the absolute dumb fuck.

“Uhm… great. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Noatak appeared to visibly deflate. “No problem.”

They were both quiet for a minute, wind practically punching Tarrlok in the face, and it was enough to make him feel ever so slightly bad. “Hey. Uh, this was nice of you. Drinks sound great.”

“You don’t have to lie. It was a fucking seashell.”

“Yeah, that was a little stupid.” He smirked, examining it. “It’s good artwork, though. Better than when you were seven.”

“Oh, wow, good to hear that something’s improved, and from the art connoisseur himself.”

“By a small margin.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Noatak actually laughed. “How was fishing on your birthday?”

“Shitty as usual.”

“Did the crew sing for you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“They hate us, don’t they?”

“Mostly you.”

“I disagree. You’re a snob. Catch anything?”

“Nothing special.”

“ _ Special? _ See? Snob.”

“Hey, you were the one asking for fancy bread.”

“For  _ you, _ ” He protested, punching him in the arm, which almost actually hurt.

“Hey!” Tarrlok chided, pocketing the shell and proceeding to rub his now-bruised shoulder. “It’s my birthday; do I not get special treatment?”

The only response he got was mocking laughter, and the banter finally settled into a comfortable silence. The town they’d been staying in wasn’t in the best shape; the wooden buildings (were they buildings? More like shacks) were falling apart and everything smelled like  _ fucking fish  _ (a scent which he was, at this point, fairly certain he’d never escape), but it wasn’t half bad. The people mostly minded their own business, the cobblestone roads were decently well-maintained, the prices weren’t too bad, and the seagulls were not incredibly aggressive, which had, for some reason, been a major deal-breaker for Noatak, but Tarrlok had decided not to pry. The fact of the matter was that they were decently content and not two seconds away from being arrested at any waking moment, which was a plus. He wouldn’t say he was happy, but comparatively, it was better than he’d been in a very long time.

“...you  _ are  _ forty now, right?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure, anyway.”


End file.
